Company's coming at seven

Four o'clock. Six people coming at seven, and three of them still smoke. Something tightens in your stomach, and you realize you've been half dreading your own party. That sofa. The open window. The corner of the kitchen. Somebody's about to carry the old evening in through your front door.

The cigarette used to run your parties from that window and let you think you were hosting. Not tonight. A host is allowed a plan. Make it now, while the house is empty and you're calm. Where do they go? Out front, out back, anywhere that isn't the room you'll sit in all night. Choices made at four cost nothing. At nine, they cost plenty.

Then enjoy the best perk a host gets. Your hands are full all night. Pour the drinks. Carry the plates. Hunt for the bottle opener. Check the oven that doesn't need checking. And don't carry the whole evening in your head. Ask God to cover one conversation at a time. Nobody has to get through a whole night at once.

At some point they'll drift out together, and the room goes quiet for a minute. You're still in it, topping up a glass. That's the whole win, and it's over before the song ends. Then they're back, somebody laughs, and the night rolls on. At midnight you'll lock the door on a home that's yours again.